


Little Man in the Music Box

by Rushar



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Sad, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rushar/pseuds/Rushar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete has a music box.  The music box has a secret.  And Pete's life is coming to a close just like the song in the music box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Man in the Music Box

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour while listening to Infinity on High and I really wanted to post it even though it makes me want to rip my heart out. 
> 
> I'm sorry.

Pete had a music box. He had found it in an antique store on his way home from his job at a coffee shop. It had cost only fifteen dollars and the old lady at the register said she had had it in her store for over a year now without anyone wanting it. It was the only beautiful thing Pete owned, his bass and vinyl records long since sold to pay for the rent on his dingy apartment in Chicago. But Pete wouldn't sell the music box.

It was about the size of a small box of chocolates and whenever you turned the handle in the back, it slowly opened up while playing a sweet, yet sad little tune. Inside was a miniature man wearing a fedora and playing guitar. His porcelain face was peaceful, eyes shut and tiny mouth smiling. He spun around with the music, arm waving up and down across the fake strings of his guitar and gave a little bow right after the song ended and just before the music box closed. Every night, Pete would listen to it and watch the tiny man spin, strum, and bow.

Every night, he tried to come up with lyrics for the song. Every night, he failed.

Slowly, his possessions dwindled. First the bed frame went, then the radio, then all but one kitchen chair and a footstool to eat from. Still the music box stayed.

Pete's friends disappeared like everything else he had owned. When his last high school friend, Andy, cut ties with him, Pete was finally alone. His parents hadn't spoken to him in years so his only friend was the man in the music box.

One night began like usual, Pete lying on his bare mattress - no pillows, those had been sold today to get supper - and the music box slowly playing. Pete was writing down lyrics on a napkin from the coffee shop with a pen that was nearly out of ink. Then he heard it. A small voice, singing the very words he was writing down in time with the music.

At first, Pete was confused. Did someone else have the same music box on the floor above or below him and just so happened to be making up the same words by a freak coincidence? Then he realised that wasn't the case - in fact, the singing was coming from the man in the music box. It was a beautiful voice, rich and deep, but also smooth and light. It matched the song perfectly, word for word along with the slightly tinny chime of the notes. Pete wrote something else, wondering if the little man would continue singing but he stopped, apparently finding the words unsatisfactory. That's when Pete knew he had to find the right words to make the little man sing.

Now the nights were spent listening to the music box and hearing the man sing Pete's words back for him. Slowly Pete built words to the song and in doing so, lost track of eating and working. Paychecks had less bonuses and Pete was getting thinner and thinner. Finally, the day after he got an eviction notice from the landlord of his apartment, the little man in the music box sang the whole song through. Pete's heart was lighter that night as he fell asleep on the mound of blankets - no mattress, that had been sold for last month's rent and a new notebook and pencil set - that the tiny man had a voice, even when Pete didn't. Briefly Pete wondered if the little man would ever sing for anybody else, but he decided to keep the gift a secret.

Pete was out on the streets the next day, a backpack carrying the music box and a water bottle being his only possessions. The pink slip from work was somewhere in a trash can two streets back, but Pete kept walking. Where he could go to find a kind heart in the depths of Chicago, he wasn't sure. Then he remembered the old lady in the antique shop. Pete found his way back to the rustic old shop squeezed between two sleek and shiny office buildings and walked inside.

"Hello," he said to the old lady at the desk - Dina, said her name tag. "Can you tell me about the music box you sold to me?"

"Has he sung?" She whispered, dark eyes brightening. "He hasn't sung for me in a long time, not since it first came into this store."

"Yes, I made him sing. How does he do that? What makes him do that?" Pete asked.

"Ah, it takes the right amount of spirit to bring him to life. At first he will sing, but supposedly if you love his song enough, he will come to life," Dina smiled. "But come upstairs dear - it's cold out and you're skin and bones. I have vegetable stew on the stove now."

"I don't want to be a bother..." Pete began, but Dina shushed him and unlocked the door behind the counter. They walked up the stairs to a little apartment above the shop where Pete was treated to a steaming, fresh, vegetable stew. He made small talk with Dina, telling her about how the music box was the only thing he had held on to when he had lost everything else. She had smiled and nodded through all of it, as though she had predicted it all.

That night, back out on the streets, a cold spell hit and icy rain fell on the windy city. Pete shivered in an alleyway, half hidden behind a smelly dumpster and using his own body to shield the music box from getting wet. His stomach growled and his fingers were blue, but Pete held on to the music box like his life depended on it. And maybe, just maybe, it did.

The next morning, a sheet of ice lay over everything. Every tree and building looked like glass but Pete was still behind the dumpster, barely breathing with icicles hanging from his lashes. The little man in the music box was singing and Pete focused on the notes instead of the deadly cold creeping up on his body.

"Sir?" A soft voice spoke from behind Pete. Pete turned around in the cramped space to see a short man crouched in the dirty alley, obviously well-off in life judging by his fleecy coat and warm, snug hat. His round cheeks were dusted pink from the cold and his... blue? Green? Gray? Eyes stared at Pete with a worried shine. He was also eerily familiar, even without his guitar.

"You're the man. In the music box," Pete rasped, too far gone to make sense. "You're him. She told me you would come."

"What? I don't understand," the man said, with a slightly confused expression. "Do you need me to call the hospital? Sir?"

"You're him," Pete breathed, barely above a whisper. "You sang in the music box. Hum Hallelujah. That was the name of the song, right? I wrote it for you."

"O-oh..." the man gazed at Pete sadly. He reached out and took Pete's hand. "I'm... sorry. I was too late, wasn't I? I - I wanted to save you."

"No." Pete smiled at the man, the best as he could muster with his eyes slowly closing. "You're right on time."

Pete sighed and stilled for the last time, as the nameless man from the music box held his hand. The miniature figure gave a bow and sank back into the box on the very second when Pete's heart finally stopped.


End file.
